


Water in My Lungs

by timescratch



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Timeline, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst, F/M, Growing Up, This is really short I just wanted to write something about these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timescratch/pseuds/timescratch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're always asking you what you want to be when you grow up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water in My Lungs

You’re 9 years old and they’re always asking you what you want to be when you grow up. You don’t really know, but you really like drawing, so you think you’d like to be an artist.

You spend your evenings sprawled out on the kitchen linoleum with nothing but a pad of paper and a pack of colored pencils to keep you company. And from those pencils flows a world entirely your own. You like it because nobody can tell you what to put in your world. They just ruffle your hair and hang your drawings on the fridge and that makes you really happy.

But all too soon you’re turning 12 years old and no one hangs your drawings on the fridge anymore, and they’re telling you that you’ll never make it in the art industry. They take your worlds away from you and try to divert your interest towards subjects they feel would be more reasonable. 

You rip up your sketchbooks in a fit of rage because all you’d wanted was to create worlds that would make people happy, but they don’t and perhaps they never did.

You don’t think you want to be an artist anymore.

* * *

 You’re 15 years old and is seems like all they ever do is ask you what you want to be when you grow up. You don’t really know, but they probably wouldn’t approve of it anyways, so you think you’d just like to be alone.

You haven’t drawn since you threw out your sketchbooks when you were 12, but one day you forget to bring your lunch, and you have nothing better to do, so you sit down at a table and start sketching a portrait of a decapitated crow.

A girl slides into the seat across from you and rests her chin in her hand, staring down at your work intently. You immediately flinch and cover it with your hands, flashing her a snarl.

“The fuck do you want?” You growl, because you know she’s going to be just like everyone else. You know she’s going to laugh. But her deep red lips just quirk up and she tilts her head to the side.

“That’s quite an interesting drawing.” She tells you, and you grow a bit flustered because it’s been years since somebody complimented your work. You just shrug and lower your gaze back to the black and red ink mingling on the back of a faded flier. “But I have to wonder, why did the crow lose its head?”

“It can’t sing anymore, so it has no reason to live.” You mutter as if it was obvious, and she just raises an eyebrow. You notice that she has a white notebook tucked under her arm and you wonder if she draws too.

“What’s in the notebook?” You ask, tipping your head towards it. Her soft smile grows just the slightest bit like she’s about to share a secret with you. You think that maybe she just might be.

“My escape,” She tells you.

Her name is Rose Lalonde and she is just the same as you.

You don’t think you want to be alone anymore.

* * *

You’re 16 years old and they’re growing more insistent about asking you what you want to be when you grow up. You don’t really know, but you’re sick of this town, so you think you’d like to be a bird and fly away.

You take up writing and you start spending your evenings lying in bed with the phone cradled against your shoulder, trading sonnets and stories with Rose. 

Sometimes Rose falls silent after you finish and then responds with a soft, “Wow.” Those are the moments you love best because you know that you managed to make her experience the same emotions as you, and in that moment it’s like you’re the same person.

“Hey, Rose?” You ask her one night after the both of you fall silent.

“Hm?” She responds a bit absentmindedly.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” You ask softly, switching the phone to your other shoulder. The line is silent for a moment, a faint crackling the only noise to occupy your ears.

“I really don’t know.” She tells you, and there’s a strange sadness that warps her rich voice.

“I thought you would have had it all figured out.” You say because she’s so confident and so much wiser than a girl her age should be and it takes you by surprise.

“Darling,” She says with morbid amusement painting her lovely voice. “Nobody ever does.”

 

You come home from school one afternoon and find your parents sitting on the couch, twin smiles lighting up their faces. Your mother’s hands are twisting in her lap excitedly and your father’s hand is resting lightly on her knee. 

They tell you that you’re going to have a baby brother or sister.

You tell them you need to be alone for a while.

 

You sit on the edge of your bed and run your hands through your hair and you don’t know why you feel so angry, but you do. It’s not because you’re jealous that you won’t be getting all of your parents’ attention, you think you’re just angry that they thought it would be a good idea to bring another child into a world as fucked up and broken in this one. 

When you were little you wanted to be an artist, but everyone just laughed and told you that you couldn’t do it, and you haven’t had many dreams ever since. 

You make a promise to the kid at that moment. You promise them that you’ll do everything you can to make sure they never run out of dreams, to make sure they always have something to look forward to.

You think you’d still like to be a bird and fly far, far away, but you don’t think you can be anymore because you have a promise you need to keep.

* * *

You’re 17 years old and you don’t think they’ll ever stop asking you what you want to be when you grow up. You don’t really know, but you never seem to get things right, so you think you’d like to stop making mistakes.

You start sleeping with Rose over the summer break and you think these types of relationships are supposed to mean something, but it’s never been anything but skin and regret to you.

After it’s over, you both put your clothes back on and sit on opposite sides of the bed, never engaging in any sort of conversation. You always sit there fidgeting and overthinking things and Rose always sits there as calm and collected as always.

Rose always has something on her mind, but she never has anything to say about you.

“What are we?” You finally ask her one evening, eyes skimming over her pale thighs as she begins to dress herself. She’s beautiful and it terrifies you.

You think that she must be just as terrified as you are because she freezes in the process of pulling her skirt up, bent at the waist and looking at you with widened lilac eyes. After a moment, she moves again, pulling her skirt all the way up and slinking back over to the bed. She sits up on her knees and drapes her arms over your neck from behind, leaning in so that her soft lips are brushing against your ear.

“We’re just very lonely.” She whispers.

It’s not the answer you were expecting, but it’s probably the answer that comes closest to the truth.

 

You’d been sleeping with Rose for 4 months before she finally says anything about it. 

You’re lying in her bed at 2 A.M., tracing the prominent blue of her veins against her pale skin and listening to the whispers of the city life below you when she finally speaks for the first time in an hour. 

“Remember that day you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up?” Rose prompts, turning your attention away from her arm.

“What about it?” You mumble back, glancing up to meet a gaze filled with more intensity than you were prepared for.

“I think I’ve finally decided what I want to be.” She declares solemnly. You just raise an eyebrow at her before she goes on. “I want to be a good person.

A small laugh tumbles from your lips.

“That’s a pretty juvenile answer coming from you.” You say.

“I don’t think there’s anything juvenile about it at all.” She responds softly. “Sometimes things happen in your life and make you rethink all of your priorities. Right now my main priority is making sure I’m a good role model.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” You ask her. She doesn’t respond immediately. It’s just the consistent sound of your mingled breaths filling up the evident void in the room. Finally she looks right back at you from beneath thick lashes and in that moment she could be as old as she likes to pretend she is.

“Because I’m going to be a mother.” She tells you.

And they’re always asking you what you want to be when you grow up.

You never said you wanted to be a parent.

* * *

You’re 18 years old and you’ve just graduated high school. No one asks what you want to be anymore, but you’ve done a lot of things wrong that need to be made right, and you think you’d like to be a good person.

For Rose.

For a brother who is named Dirk.

And for a girl you think will be named Roxy.


End file.
